


And, And, And-

by captainkoirk



Series: Hindsight is 20/20 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Star Wars, Bottom Scott, Bottoming from the Top, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, I am on a cocktail of pain medication because wisdom teeth, Isaac Lahey is not a Middle School Private Eye, Isaac and Stiles would probably burn down the whole damn town if left to their own devices, M/M, Riding, Rutting, Sharing a Bed, let's be real here who doesn't have a thing for Scott's hands, please ignore my entire personality thank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkoirk/pseuds/captainkoirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles likes to be sure of things, when he can be. It comes with the territory; growing up on the wrong side of gangly, complete with a late growth spurt and a nail-biting habit. Precocious as they come and constantly mistaken for being younger. An ex-prodigy child with a mean streak that grew up too fast because a broad vocabulary means hitting hard and getting your barbs <i>hooked</i>.</p><p>Stiles can do tunnel vision with the best of them, knows every Pre and Post iteration of himself, can pick at a moment and know his own inevitable shifting, from Mom's death to his first day of high school to his first brush with lycanthropy. And yet he can't pinpoint when Scott's leg pressed against his own changed from something he wouldn't even register to the sort of thing that twists in his gut and pulls the air from his lungs, because Scott's been his constant when the world won't stop spinning and Stiles wants off, and Stiles can't quantify any of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles can do tunnel vision with the best of them, picking at a frayed spot on his jeans- one too many tumbles through the undergrowth, roots and rocks and teeth- and figuring out the exact moments his own threads began unravelling.

 

It's arbitrary, of course. There's no real point to looking back on old wounds, of which their are _many-_ useless, of course. Worries reduced to _whatevers,_ piles of cigarette butts littering the ground during a snowstorm.

 

A snowstorm of murder, mayhem, and all that fun stuff. And Stiles? Stiles is shin-deep in the stuff, unable to move fast in any direction, be it back or forth.

 

So, problems; the inconvenient and spontaneous erections of adolescence suddenly overshadowed by a palpable nighttime with both hands around Stiles' neck, squeezing _tight_.

 

Stiles can't do much in the ways of preemptive striking. He's got some ice packs queued up. Deaton's on speed dial. He keeps his eyes on his father's gun. It's not much as far as werewolves are concerned; he may as well be shooting grapes from a slingshot, but hey.

 

On second thought, the inconvenient and spontaneous erections of adolescence aren't completely something Stiles doesn't worry about.

 

It's like _that._ Stiles thinks the universe has a sick sense of humour, like that. Sure, he spends years wishing this wasn't a pressing concern, and it's granted in one of _those_ ways; life spinning around and flipping and expanding and becoming horrifically constricting, all at once. And suddenly Stiles has enough mental images- in glorious HD, a 4-D experience- to make his balls crawl up inside his body, if need be.

 

And yet, it's still a problem. It's a problem when he's half-sleeping on the floor, Scott moulded against the desk chair, the expanse of his broad chest rippling as it contorts to fit just _there_. It's a problem when he wakes up, and the sunlight filtering through the blinds highlights the skin where Scott's shirt has ridden up, making him glow like some kind of fucking cosmic deity. It's a problem when Stiles wants to crawl on his hands and knees and drag his tongue over that skin.

 

Elastic band snap back to reality, Stiles can line up endless slideshows behind his eyes featuring all kinds of grisly, boner-killing material, but even that sort of desensitized normalcy can't distract him from the distinct abnormality that, _hello,_ this is his best friend he's fantasizing about, and he shouldn't need reruns of the high-budget horror movie that is suddenly his life to unwillingly drag his thoughts, not to mention his dick, from the gutter.

 

Stiles likes to be sure of things, when he can be. It comes with the territory; growing up on the wrong side of gangly, complete with a late growth spurt and a nail-biting habit. Precocious as they come and constantly mistaken for being younger. An ex-prodigy child with a mean streak that grew up too fast because a broad vocabulary means hitting hard and getting your barbs _hooked._

 

Scott, though- Stiles thought he'd always be sure of Scott. Scott is himself- reliable, kind, and selfless to a fault. He expects the best from himself, but isn't afraid to ask for help. Scott's the one with the Bite, sure, but Stiles is the one that _bites._

 

Stiles knows he's still sure of Scott, though. It's himself he's not sure about. That tunnel vision isn't helping him figure out when Scott's knee bumping against his own started making him feel _electric_. And that's a goddamn problem, right there.

 

So Stiles lies on his floor, spiral bound notebook digging into his back, face digging into the corner of his laptop, pretending to be asleep, trying not to dwell.

 

Scott's awake, scooting out of the chair, stretching amiably- he does _everything_ amiably, that's decidedly not new, Stiles just doesn't know when it started making him squirm- shirt rucked up, golden skin and dark hair peeking out from under his waistband, and, and, _and-_

 

Stiles has a defensive vocabulary because it's some kind of armour, but he's not sure when he started trying his hand at writing amateur harlequin novels. Specifically, about his best friend.

 

While Stiles has been busy crashing his own train of thought (bailing out the window and over the bridge, in fact), Scott's been moving; bare feet padding over to wear Stiles lies, and Stiles knows there's no point in pretending to sleep, wiping grit from his eyes and pointedly not looking and the dip of Scott's collarbone when Scott crouches next to him, gently prodding him in the side.

 

"I can't believe we couldn't get an extension on our Econ essays. I guess fending off the forces of darkness isn't a legit excuse, huh?" Scott sighs, and Stiles ignores the the rise and fall of Scott's chest; concentrates, instead, on keeping his heartbeat even.

 

"Ugh, what time is it?" Stiles asks, wincing at the sound of his face peeling off his laptop.

 

"Just past seven. You wanna shower first?" Scott makes to stand, and Stiles flings an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from Scott's thighs un-bunching and lengthening. It's too fucking early to deal with that.

 

Stiles nods, scrubbing sleep out of his eyes. A cold shower, sure. A standard remedy for something Stiles never thought he'd be dealing with. Scott runs a hand through his hair, and his bed head completely blind sides Stiles, and when did this turn into _that_ kind of crush? Stiles scrambles to his feet, staggering to the bathroom.

 

The cold spray jolts him awake, and Stiles scrubs with more single-mindedness than would ever be necessary. It's not even Scott's fault, in any conceivable way. It's Stiles that shifted the paradigm, because that's how it's always been, between them; a push and a pull, shoving and reacting, two kids operating on the scales of that unique brand of cruelty and kindness reserved for the young and reckless.

 

Scott and Stiles had been finishing up their papers for Econ at Stiles' place, reading and rereading and inhaling Redbull (well, Stiles was inhaling Redbull. It doesn't do anything for Scott. Not anymore. Stiles would almost wish for simpler times, but it's already near impossible not to think about the column of Scott's neck, and how big and steady his hands are, and, and, _and-_ ).

 

He dresses, numb with routine and thankful for it all the same. Don't wish for excitement, and _certainly_ don't wish for boundless leisure. Well, Stiles has lived long enough toeing multiple lines as it is, so.

 

Scott's leaning against the counter when Stiles comes downstairs, eating All-Bran (house rules, Scott knows) with a look of noble resignation that makes Stiles want to laugh, want to _kiss him_ -

 

Instead, he raises an eyebrow, smirks, tells Scott that his struggle is real, if his face is anything to go by, and it's Scott who laughs, and that's simultaneously better and much, much worse.

 

Of course Scott's got a struggle. Has the world on his shoulders, darkness around his heart and a smile that reaches his eyes, and Stiles wants to, like, spoon feed him Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Count Chocula, and Stiles _wants-_

 

Scott tips his bowl back, drinking up the milk dregs, and what was Stiles just thinking about the column of his neck, because even that's struck out when Scott grins at him, announcing that he's going to shower, that Stiles had better have left him hot water.

 

Stiles doesn't consider himself a moper, or the sulky kind. Scott would take his Best Friend duties very seriously if Stiles seemed unhappy in any capacity, anyways. He always has.

 

So it's business as usual, then. Stiles focusing on the rough, grainy cereal, pulverizes any thoughts of Scott in the shower ( _his_ shower-).

 

They stop at the McCall residence on their way to school, Scott grabbing a change of clothes and one Isaac Lahey. Stiles waits in the jeep, absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

 

Stiles doesn't know when Isaac started making him jealous. It doesn't make it better that things are so far from Isaac's fault that Stiles can't even _see_ him. Stiles just imagine what it would be like to physically _belong_ to Scott, to feel him bone-deep, hear his heartbeat and breathe him in and, and, _and_ -

 

The passenger door of the jeep opens, and there's Scott, right at Stiles' side with Isaac scooting into the back seat, long legs sprawling over the upholstery. Scott insists Isaac wear his seatbelt, and when Isaac wordlessly complies, there's a little twinge of something in Stiles' gut.

 

Stiles forgot how slow the school day moves, between a relatively relaxing summer vacation and the climax of everything that could ever possibly go wrong in the history of _ever_ happening.

 

Between Biology moving like molasses and Economics edging on and tripping back and forth with on sidetrack or another, no thanks to Finstock, Stiles finds himself focusing on the shell of Scott's ear, and, and, _and-_

 

Scott's waving a hand in front of his face, there's a bell ringing that isn't some kind of alarm, and yeah, this is a problem.

 

Stiles is lying awake in bed, contemplating friendship, and it's feeling a lot more like contemplating some kind of abyss. Scott and Him aren't best friends. They are Best Friends, the dynamic underdog duo from every liar of a high school movie, and Stiles wouldn't- couldn't- give it up for anything. Not even the feeling of Scott's hands casually tucking into the back pocket of his jeans, tilting his chin up to kiss Stiles' neck, and how is Stiles the taller one? _Definitely_ not the feeling of Scott's mouth marking Stiles' skin up, purple stains spreading under his tongue, and Stiles doesn't know when 'erotic novelist' found its way onto his list of potential future careers.

 

There's a knock at his window, and Stiles stopped being surprised a long time ago.

 

"I thought you were partial to taking the door. Picking up tips from the Hales?" Stiles teases, unlatching his window and stepping back as Scott emerges in his bedroom, uncurling his body in one fluid movement.

 

"It's, uh, kind of late. On a school night. And there's no emergency. And your dad's sleeping, and I didn't want to disturb-" Scott has the good grace to look sheepish, even if he and Stiles have been past guilt for a _long_ time.

 

"Scott. What's up?" Stiles asks, and he never thought he'd be the kind of person that has to fight to keep their heart _out_ of their voice.

 

The line of Scott's shoulders go all soft, though, and Stiles is cool with finding success in his failure. "It's been a stressful few months." Scott blurts out. "Besides everything else, I mean. I almost lost you, you're my _Best Friend-_ "

 

Stiles hears the capitals, there, and it does good and bad things to his chest, because he shouldn't _want-_

 

Scott crosses over from the window in two big strides, but he hovers next to the bed, forehead creased in a frown, and Stiles moves over immediately, plugging up the geyser of thoughts welling up about _Scott in his bed._

 

It's not like they haven't before. Sleepovers and passing out on the sofa or on the floor, cradling xbox controllers or Math textbooks. They've never been awkward about cases of Ye Olde Morning Wood, and Stiles is having a vague flashback to them at eleven, Stiles panicking and Scott explaining in soothing terms some of the nurse jargon his mother told him about puberty, how it's perfectly normal to experience-

 

Scott settles into the mattress, socks and dark denim over shirt and all, arm tucked under his head, and he's looking at Stiles with this intensity that makes Stiles want to preen and wither at the same time.

 

They're lying on their sides, facing each other, and when Scott hooks an arm around Stiles, broad palm against the small of his back, Stiles wants to arch his back and melt against it, wants to jump up and run, because he loves it in an achy, unrequited way that's making his throat go all tight.

 

"Hey," Scott says, and Stiles has built a liar out of himself, and where it counts, he is very, _very_ good. It's not when he's flailing behind some flimsy cover- physical cover or cover story or otherwise- but it's right down to the lines of his body and the muscles of his face, and Stiles never thought he'd be using these weapons against Scott (or rather, himself).

 

"things are okay, I think." Scott continues, and the hand on Stiles' back is circling, warm and solid and under his skin, and, and, _and-_

 

"We're safe." Scott says, for Stiles and himself, and Stiles believes him.

 

"I thought, when you left with Deucalion, and I couldn't- I'm the one with the _plan,_ Scott-" Things are crawling up out Stiles' throat, unbidden; shoving past his vocal chords in a messy spew, and Stiles wishes he could hate that Scott makes him gut-wrenchingly honest.

 

Scott pulls him in, then; sharing his air and keeping him grounded with that fucking hand, burning through Stiles' pyjama shirt and right out the other side. Stiles isn't a stranger to Scott's proximity, though neither of them are exceptionally-well, huggy. They don't have secrets from each other, and Stiles doesn't count his own, because a secret is between two people, and what he has is a silent fact he's hardly sharing with himself.

 

The body moves while the conscious is otherwise occupied, though; and that's kind of essential for Stiles, with internal narration and geriatric murderers on the loose hardly mixing, but now he's got one hand curled tight in the fabric of Scott's shirt, and Scott's breath is a warm rush against his nose, and it tingles.

 

"Hey." Scott starts again, and his arms are strong around Stiles' waist, and Stiles' growth spurt doesn't even register when Scott tucks him under his chin. Stiles has a handful of reasons- not excuses, he's sure- for his runaway pulse, but Scott's heartbeat is steady, and this is somewhere Stiles can follow him.

 

"Don't go where I can't follow." Stiles says, muffled against Scott's chest, and Scott hums with a kind of reassurance, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, because this is good and bad, and, and, _and-_

 

His dad doesn't bat an eyelash when he wakes them up for school, and Stiles knows waking up wrapped in Scott isn't even something he should be considering _anything,_ anyways- because it's them, and they don't have boundaries because they're not supposed to feel _that_ way about each other.

 

And yet.

 

Stiles can do tunnel vision with the best of them, knows every Pre and Post iteration of himself, can pick at a moment and know his own inevitable shifting, from Mom's death to his first day of high school to his first brush with lycanthropy. And yet he can't pinpoint when Scott's leg pressed against his own changed from something he wouldn't even register to the sort of thing that twists in his gut and pulls the air from his lungs, because Scott's been his constant when the world won't stop spinning and Stiles wants off, and Stiles can't quantify any of it.

 

So when Scott mumbles "five more minutes" and keeps his eyes screwed shut against the invading sunlight, Stiles keeps his own eyes on the length of Scott's dark lashes, and how his lips are parted (the thin line of saliva stretched out in Scott's mouth, and that shouldn't be pornographic in any way, but-).

 

Stiles rolls out of bed, and Scott's noise of protest makes Stiles simultaneously smug and and hopeless and angry at himself about both.

 

Stiles can remember the first time he lied to an authority figure (got the ball rolling), but he can't remember when Scott being his first kiss (they were eleven, wildly nervous about middle school girls and social expectations, how do you _kiss?_ ) stopped definitely not-counting and started being something he holds onto with a misplaced sense of ownership, because he was _first,_ with Blistex brand chapstick, scabs on his knees and dirt on his nails on a sticky summer day.

 

Sometime after first period, Isaac doesn't _quite_ corner him. Isaac's just a tall guy that lopes instead of walking.

 

"So, did you guys finally fall into that whole we-almost-died-I-almost-lost-you-sudden-surge-of-emotionally-charged-sex-haze? Because that's two nights in a row. Nice."

 

Stiles isn't entirely sure what he and Isaac have qualifies as wholesome friendship. It's like they had a mutual realization that if Scott left them alone together they'd, like, get burgers and rob a bank and quite possibly kill a man together. It's a little weird, but Stiles can get that morally grey thought process. He's sure the main reason that they don't join forces and use their combined powers and prowesses for some kind of dodgy activity is that Scott would be disappointed in them. So they have weird banter instead.

 

"What?" Stiles blinks, and okay, maybe 'banter' isn't the right word.

 

Isaac raises _both_ his eyebrows, and he looks just as surprised at the fact that he can as he is at Stiles' response. "Seriously? But you both smell like each other and- oh, god- I'm, like, eighty percent sure Ethan can smell it too, and seventy percent sure he's gonna ask for _advice,_ on the whole werewolf-to-human issue- well, shit."

 

Stiles just fixes Isaac with a B-Grade glower, and Isaac smirks, because that's what they do.

 

"Well, do you want to?" Isaac asks, with his honest kind of directness that still makes Stiles jealous, because Scott's not the lying type, and Isaac isn't (weirdly enough), but Stiles is, and-

 

"Want what?" Not like Stiles doesn't know.

 

"A we-almost-died-I-almost-lost-you-sudden-surge-of-emotionally-charged-sex-haze. With Scott. Obviously." Isaac crosses his arms over his chest, and Stiles is jealous of that broad chest and that jaw and those cherubic curls, even though he really shouldn't be, because it's not like Isaac's had it easy, or anything.

 

Stiles lets out this long-suffering sigh. "Human lie detector, what's even the _point-_ " and Isaac fixes him with this equally long-suffering stare, and their friendship isn't wholesome, but it's got real substance.

 

"I _still_ don't know how you two losers survive," Isaac sniffs. "and this isn't middle school, but I'm willing to put off that Biology questions package and play private eye. You owe me."

 

"I didn't even _ask-_ " Stiles starts, but he and Isaac are, surprisingly, not the arguing types, even if they hate admitting the other is right. The closest thing they come to fighting over is Scott's approval, and Stiles can pinpoint the moment when he started being jealous of the Egon Schiele sketch-turned Michelangelo statue giving him a look that says _shut up, I'm doing you a favour._

 

That night, Scott's at his bedroom window again, and Stiles resists the urge to run across his room and fling open the window, drag Scott in by his collar, and, and, _and-_

 

Instead, Stiles walks over to the window, unlocks and opens it with minimal fumbling, and when Scott says "I'm afraid of there being nightmares, after-" Stiles hugs him first, quashing the guilt he feels at curling a hand around the bare skin at the base of Scott's neck.

 

Stiles walks them backwards, and when he falls back, Scott's right there next to him.

 

"My dad's still hanging around."

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose, and Scott snorts at his expression.

 

"Yeah, basically."

 

Stiles doesn't know how anyone couldn't love Scott and Melissa, especially someone with the supposed smarts of an FBI field agent. Doesn't get how anyone could feel anything less than unabashed adoration for them (his own un-unabashed-ness, something beyond sheepish that Stiles doesn't like thinking about, in regards to Scott is totally different, it's because that's not what they do, he's the Best Friend with capital letters).

 

"He's such a tool." Stiles says, because he can't say _anyone that can't look at you and Melissa and be completely bowled over and filled with admiration and love doesn't even register,_ because that's not for him, but then again, it's not really for anyone else, either. So Stiles pushes, just a little.

 

"I mean," Stiles starts, and he feels a flush on the back of his neck. "it's _you._ It's _Melissa._ How could anyone, not- just, he doesn't deserve you two."

 

Scott's looking at him, and Stiles knows there's something distinctly flutter-y going on in his chest.

 

Scott rests one of those broad palms on Stiles' cheek, and Stiles can feel his heart stop and start all at once, all again when Scott rests his forehead against Stiles' own. When Scott breathes in, Stiles hopes he's in that rush of air, hopes he's stuck inside Scott's lungs forever, how Scott's been in his veins since Stiles' can't remember, and, and, _and-_

 

Stiles wakes up on the horizontal side of the bed, and taller he may be, but he's the little spoon. Scott's mouth is pressed against the skin where his neck meets his shoulder, and Stiles will steal his moments where he can, keeping his breathing slow, pretending to sleep.

 

He's partial to his rule of threes, but the first night was just a homework session, and this is _Scott._

 

Scott shifts, splaying a hand over Stiles' chest, and Stiles is sure that it's Scott's hands that are stopping him from taking this crush with his usual resignation, that make it impossible to ignore the constant ache, Scott invading every crevice of his mind because he's always been there (Stiles can be a little honest with himself, at least).

 

When Scott opens his eyes, lashes tickling the column of Stiles' neck, Stiles back arches, just a little, and Scott follows him, flush against Stiles' back, all the from shoulders to hips and knees and oh, _hips-_

 

"S'Saturday." Scott mumbles, lips moving against the nook of Stiles' neck, cool against the heat Stiles is sure is rising on his skin. Or maybe it's like a little burn.

 

"Yeah." Stiles breathes out, and this is the first Saturday in a while that he hasn't spent holding off some evil or another.

 

Scott kisses Stiles' temple, then, a sloppy thing that makes Stiles feel electric all the way down to his toes, and when Scott makes to move, Stiles is sure his hand reaching back to hook in the belt loop of Scott's jeans is involuntary.

 

Scott puts his hand over Stiles' like he's making to move, and when he does, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and spreading his toes on the floor, Stiles can't, because this is inconsistent with their constance and Stiles _won't._

 

"You can't _just-_ " Stiles starts, and his face is hot, buried in his hands, and he's curling in to his centre, and when he peeks at Scott between his fingers, and, and, _and-_

 

Scott's looking at him some kind of curious, and it's all too much, and when Stiles breathes _get back here, you can't just-_ (there's some kind of whine in his voice, and) Scott springs, with the traces of something lupine bunched in the muscles of his thighs, and _oh._

 

He's bracketing Stiles' head between those hands- big and capable and too gentle hands- and when Stiles meets his eyes, squirms- just a little, Scott says _can I,_ and it's Stiles who growls, and everything is a mess of the _wer_ and the _wulf._

 

Scott sinks against him, jeans sleep-warm, and Stiles wants him under his skin, inside his chest cavity, and he can't figure out the when or the where or the how or the why, but Scott's mouth still tastes like Blistex chapstick.

 

Stiles can do tunnel vision with the best of them, and he knows that Scott's got a long tongue (summer of the eighth grade, it had been a contest to see, and Scott's tongue had been Gatorade blue, Stiles knows), and the drag of it against his mouth is all he needs to focus on, and the whens and wheres and hows and whys don't matter at all.

 

Scott sits back, hands still tight on Stiles' hips, and Stiles' crawls onto his lap, chasing Scott's mouth and bracketing Scott's hips with his thighs. He's not hovering, not at all- pressing down with his usual brand of insistence, and when Scott's hands squeeze, Stiles grinds down, and when Scott responds from deep in his chest- that's _delicious._

 

"When did you…?" Scott asks, and it's breathless and small and _too much,_ and Stiles shoves him into the mattress.

 

"Don'tknowdon'tcare." He mutters against Scott's mouth, and when Scott's lips curve into a smile, bending Stiles' tongue a little weird, Stiles is sure he sees fucking fireworks behind his eyelids.

 

"Me neither."

 

Stiles stops, then; narrows his eyes, and when Scott smiles bright and blinding, pushes his tongue under the jut of Stiles' jaw, Stiles knows he can't go backtrack (but he always knew, with Scott).


	2. Chapter 2

When Scott bucks his hips up, meeting Stiles in the middle, hands pressed on Stiles' bare hipbones under his shirt- everything sort of _hits_ Stiles, right square in the chest. Scott leans up, curving off the mattress, pushing his open mouth against Stiles' neck, humming with content. He's giving Stiles all his attention- teeth barely-there, hands pointedly above the belt- like they have all the time in the world, like Stiles doesn't need more than two hands and several minutes to list off their near-death experiences with any degree of accuracy. It's grounding and dizzying, and Stiles doesn't know _how_ \- how he's supposed to keep it together, like this, and, and, _and-_

 

Scott nips him, light and playful. "You with me, dude?" He asks, and his eyes are so dark and warm and they're making Stiles' mouth go dry.

 

"I- it's a lot to take in." Stiles admits, and the tips of his ears are burning, because he can't get anything past Scott, and it's unnerving and liberating all at once.

 

"Do you want me to stop?" Scott asks, hands lifting from Stiles' hips, and the noise that claws it's way up Stiles' throat is some kind of animalistic.

 

" _Oh-_ don't you dare, fuck, Scott, I'll-" Stiles snarls, grabbing Scott's hands and shoving them into the back pockets of his jeans, biting Scott's lower lip.

 

Scott grins, then; squeezing Stiles' ass, nudging open Stiles' mouth with his tongue, rolls his hips under Stiles with intent. Stiles pushes down, trying to pick up some kind of rhythm, and how are they both still _fully clothed_? Stiles can't even focus on that, though- not with Scott's tongue slick against his own, caught up in a blisteringly hot kiss like he's the centre of Scott's whole universe.

 

Scott kisses like Stiles is his _everything_ ; dipping down to suck on Stiles' pulse points and tease Stiles' collarbones with his teeth, trailing his way back up to Stiles' mouth and sucking Stiles' brain out through his tongue. Stiles melts against Scott's body, just letting himself _sink,_ and his skin is tender and red and blotchy with Scott's single-mindedness and purposeful mouth (of _course_ Scott's a kisser), and the friction of Scott's jeans feels good, but it could feel better, _if_ -

 

"Stiles, you gotta- _Stiles._ " Scott groans, and it rumbles from his chest through his body, like _Stiles_ is making him fall apart, and that's happening, that's actually happening- Stiles is making Scott fall apart under him, and, and, _and-_

 

Stiles pushes Scott down into the mattress, and he's not sure what any of his limbs are doing, but when he writhes against Scott, it's all denim and gravity and _those_ hands on his body.

 

" _Stiles_." Scott gasps, and it's drawn out with the arching of his back and how his hands- wide, callused palms and spread fingers- scramble for purchase on Stiles' shoulders, clutching at Stiles' face. "Stiles, how d'you want- _do_ you want-"

 

It clicks, then, and Stiles feels caught in his own sweat-slick skin. Scott kisses like they have forever- that's a concept, the time spanning forward that Stiles gets to have Scott, and he can't think about anything beyond that, because Scott's his fucking pivoting point- like Stiles is his lifeline; it's not desperate, but there's drive and intent and all of Scott's intensity, and it's focused on _Stiles._ Scott wants- Stiles can't call it fucking; certainly can't call it _love-making,_ for all that he wants to; sex sounds clinical, but it's in the middle, sort of- Scott wants sex with Stiles. Scott McCall, who is a fucking Disney prince inside and out, wants to engage in honest-to-god _intercourse_ with _Stiles,_ and is looking at Stiles like he hangs the moon, and it's making Stiles' brain shut down and compact and self destruct, and Stiles hasn't replied yet-

 

"I want to, Scott, I- I don't know how we're gonna, I never let myself think about how we'd-"

 

Scott sits up, one smooth shift of muscles under skin, and he's wrapping broad arms Stiles' waist, kissing him small and gentle, just noses bumping and lips brushing. "You never let yourself- oh, _Stiles_." There's nothing like pity in his voice, just warmth that Stiles wants to wrap himself in, and he basically can, so.

 

"It's _you,_ it's like I'd be completely changing the playing field, and you didn't sign up for that." Stiles buries his face in Scott's shoulder, and he remembers spring of the tenth grade, when he _finally_ was the taller of the two.

 

"Hey," Scott says, stroking the back of Stiles' neck. "hey, Stiles, look at me, okay?"

 

Stiles bumps his forehead against Scott's, and his face is a blur, but Scott's at it again with tender, chaste kisses, and it's almost enough to make Stiles forget how horny he is. Sort of almost, maybe. Stiles is _very_ horny. He's almost positive Scott could bring him off just by kissing him enough.

 

Stiles could get off just like this, rutting against Scott's jeans with Scott's mouth soft on his own. _Sex,_ though- the two of them could- Stiles isn't sure how he wants this, whether it'll be achingly slow and brain-meltingly passionate or desperate friction and Stiles' nails down Scott's back, and, and, _and-_

 

Stiles doesn't register that he's still moving, grinding against Scott's lap and clutching at his shoulders, until Scott squeezes the back of his neck, just on the right side of firm. Stiles stills, then, leaning back just enough to clearly see Scott's face.

 

Scott's eyes are heavy-lidded, and his stare makes Stiles' skin feel too tight. Scott nudges his nose under the corner of Stiles' jaw, worrying Stiles' earlobe between his lips, and Stiles doesn't know why that feels so amazing- it's an _earlobe,_ for fuck's sake.

 

"D'you want your cock in me?" Scott asks, mouth tickling the shell of Stiles' ear, and his voice is something sweet that Stiles could drown in, like a vat of dark chocolate, or something.

 

Stiles tries to respond- a nod, a 'yes', _anything-_ but he can't manage anything beyond a strangled stutter that could loosely be construed as Scott's name, because Scott's smoothed a hand under Stiles' shirt and splayed it over his ribs, and it covers so _much_ of his chest. Scott laughs into Stiles' mouth, and it's _friendly,_ and Stiles can't quantify their relationship at all, because Scott's been his everything longer than Stiles cares to know, and now they have- Stiles doesn't know, but he can't think about anything beyond it, it's so _much._

 

Scott shifts, then; tipping his hips up and chin back, smiling so easily against Stiles' mouth, like this is just some kind of simple happiness, and Stiles just can't with this.

 

Stiles comes in his jeans, hands scrambling for purchase in the fabric of Scott's shirt, spewing a chain of expletives and affirmations, hips spasming in Scott's lap. Scott's looking up at him with some kind of unabashed awe, eyes bright and mouth slack, and Stiles makes to apologize because he _just-_ and Scott's rolled them over, pulling off Stiles' shirt and pressing the length of his body fully against Stiles, hands pushing at the small of Stiles' back, canting Stiles' hips forward.

 

Stiles knows he's flushing all over, across his shoulders and down his chest, and he hasn't been embarrassed in front of Scott in _years,_ but this is sort of a whole different ball game.

 

"Oh, god. I can't believe I just-" Stiles chokes out, but Scott's mouthing at Stiles' crotch, and that's not what Stiles was expecting.

 

Stiles props himself up on his elbows, and Scott's unzipping his jeans with his _teeth_ , grinning sharp and white, and Stiles needs a moment. Or ten.

 

Stiles falls back into the mattress, and the noise he makes must be some kind of hysterical, because Scott stops- Stiles' jeans and boxers  shoved halfway down his thighs, Scott's tongue on Stiles' dick- and shimmies up Stiles' torso, resting a sticky chin on Stiles' stomach.

 

"Stiles?"

 

Stiles lets out a distressed half-laugh, flinging an arm over his eyes. "I totally just came in my pants. In our first sexy encounter. And you're- you're unzipping my jeans with your teeth like some kind of sex god and licking up my- fuck, _Scott_."

 

Scott's looking at Stiles all soft, and he kisses him just under the navel. "It's not like… I'm not a _sex god_ -" Scott blushes, and Stiles isn't sure how he's supposed to get used to this. "-like, sex isn't… just do what feels good, and don't feel embarrassed or anything."

 

"Are you missing the part where I came in my pants?"

 

"It's not- I mean, I thought it was really hot, so."

 

"You think I- when I, _you?_ "

 

"I wanna taste you, and… it makes me smell like you." Scott stumbles, and Stiles doesn't know how Scott's flipped it, how Scott's acting like he's the embarrassing one.

 

"You wanna smell like- oh my _god,_ why are you still wearing _clothes_?"

 

Scott shrugs, peeling off his shirt and tugging off his jeans, crawling over Stiles and sprawling on his chest. Stiles is really onboard with how Scott's ass looks in his black boxer briefs. And the bare muscled planes of his back.

 

"You're still hard." Stiles mumbles into the crown of Scott's head, and the smell of Scott's shampoo is so familiar, but Stiles never thought about it in the context of _we could shower together, if we wanted._

 

Scott shrugs again, muscles rippling down his back. "You don't have to-"

 

"Stop being the personification of a salted caramel mocha, for like, one minute."

 

"-That doesn't make sense?"

 

Stiles sits up, pushing a hand down Scott's stomach. "I _want_ to touch you, you fucking- oh, remind me to say 'hello' to each of your abs individually, later-"

 

Scott _writhes,_ leaning into Stiles' touch and making all kinds of desperate noises, eyes and cheeks some kind of feverish, and _oh._ Stiles can read Scott better than anyone, he's sure. It's years of existing without personal space, and Stiles knows what Scott likes, even if he's only just learning what Scott likes in the context of sex.

 

"You like- you asked if I wanted my cock in you- fuck, _Scott_ -"

 

"I always have to… when I'm with you, I can let go."

 

"Oh my god. Lie _down._ "

 

Scott rolls off Stiles, lying on his back propped up on his elbows, legs spread. Stiles kicks off his jeans, crawling over to straddle Scott's thighs. He has a vague idea of what to do- not that he's bragging about his masturbatory skills, or anything- and he's pretty sure he can make up for his lack of experience with enthusiasm. It works in real life- except holy shit, this _is_ Stiles' life, now. Stiles' life is inhaling vanilla Oreos and playing Halo and ignoring Econ homework with Scott, and it's kissing Scott and sex with Scott and Scott letting go with him, and, and, _and-_

 

Scott's saying his name like some kind of prayer, and when Stiles finally touches him, he doesn't stutter. His body arches, and it's so seamless, and Stiles wants to drag his tongue over that skin, _does_ drag his tongue over that skin when he realizes that he can.

 

Stiles wants to mark up Scott's skin, frustrated that he can't no matter what he does. He's got his teeth in the dip of Scott's shoulder, palm dragging up the length of Scott's cock, and Scott isn't even trying to stay quiet.

 

"I'm just touching you, and you're- I _have_ you, Scott. Your hickies all over my neck, too high up to- your skin smells like _me_. Everyone's gonna know that you belong to me, fuck. We get to… you could pin me against a wall like I didn't weigh anything, suck me off, swallow my come- or would you like it better on your face?"

 

" _Stiles-_ " Scott's voice is high in the back of his throat, heels digging into the mattress.

 

"-You _would,_ and you'd lick it up, and- fuck, Scott, you've got all this power and you want me to, want _me_ … what if I bent you over you over that fucking motorbike, and-"

 

"-Stiles, I need-"

 

"What do you need? Anything, Scott, you know that I'm yours, right?" Stiles curves his wrist, tries to mould himself right against Scott's body, doesn't stifle his groan when Scott digs blunt, human nails into his bicep.

 

"Oh, _that's-_ " Scott keens, hooking an ankle over Stiles' calf. When Stiles thumbs his slit, Scott throws his head back, lewd and delicious, and Stiles doesn't stop himself from licking all the way up the column of Scott's neck, flicking his tongue over Scott's mouth.

 

When Scott comes, he contorts in the sheets, and the sound of slick skin against skin makes Stiles lightheaded. They're just two gross teenagers on a Saturday morning, getting off with grinding and handjobs, and when Stiles cleans Scott's come off his hand with his tongue, Scott _pounces_ on him, leaving a hickey on the inside of his left knee.

 

" _You're-_ hey, I meant it when I said I'd say 'hello' to each of your abs individually." Stiles shoves playfully at Scott's chest, and it's reminiscent of all their horsing around over the years, and that's sweet and more than a little hot.

 

"What- _oh._ "

 

Stiles pushes his mouth against Scott's stomach, licking up his come in slow tugs, feeling Scott's muscles clench and spasm under him.

 

"You'd better've also meant it when you said you'd bend me over my motorbike." Scott growls, hand tight in Stiles' hair while Stiles hums appreciatively against his abdomen, and again it occurs to Stiles that he gets to _have_ Scott, as much as he wants.

 

"Oh, my god!"

 

"Stiles?"

 

"It's a Saturday, and we're- we get to have _so much intercourse._ With each other. Oh my god." Stiles is laughing in a feverish, frenzied way that sounds more than a little more maniacal.

 

Scott smiles at him, and it's so sweet and happy, and he pulls Stiles against him with this contented sigh, and he kisses his temple, and, and, _and-_

 

"D'you have any lube?"

 

"What? You're- _already?_ "

 

"No! No, nope. I need, like, minutes. But. It would suck if we got into it and we didn't have any. Preparedness."

 

"You're a handsome Boyscout. A handsome Boyscout that belongs to me."

 

Scott blushes, rubbing the back of his neck and lowering his lashes, and Stiles pulls him in for one of those all-consuming kisses, cradling Scott's face in his hands. Scott wraps his arms around Stiles' waist, holding him close, and Stiles could never get used to this.

 

"I don't have any."

 

"What?" Scott asks, sleepily, pressing sloppy kisses across Stiles' cheeks and over the bridge of his nose.

 

"Lube."

 

"Mhm. I do. Just lemme-" Scott pins Stiles against the mattress, slotting his body against Stiles', digging his face under Stiles' jaw and _inhaling,_ open-mouthed and wet.

 

" _Oh-_ " Stiles breathes, and when he squirms, Scott growls, and his whole body tingles. "You're such a weirdo." He laughs, Scott's lips tickling his neck.

 

"You smell amazing." Scott smiles, all innocence, as he sits back, and Stiles bites at his mouth.

 

Scott grabs jeans from the floor, tugging them on over his bare ass, and Stiles hooks a hand in his belt loop, refusing to let go until Scott kisses him compliant. Scott puts on Stiles' shirt, and it's far too tight across the chest, and there's what feels like miles of skin between the hem and the waistband of Scott's jeans. Stiles grabs at him again, laving a tongue over the trail of dark hair under Scott's navel, and Scott lets out an indignant squeak.

 

"You do know I'm trying to _enable_ your dick up my ass, right?"

 

"You look so sexed-up in my clothes, though. And I'm _responsible_." Stiles smirks against Scott's stomach, grazing his teeth over Scott's hip.

 

Scott hauls Stiles up by his shoulders, stumbling back into Stiles' bed when Stiles hooks his legs around Scott's hips, tugging.

 

" _Stiles._ " Scott groans, wriggling away when Stiles presses insistently against his thigh. "Stiles. I want to ride you until you forget your own name. In order to _facilitate_ -"

 

"Facilitate? Nice. SAT word?" Stiles cups Scott's ass with both hands. "And I'm _so_ down for that, by the way, but you don't get to rub up against me and _inhale_ me, before leaving _wearing my way too-tight shirt_ without me getting in some weirdness of my own."

 

"I'll be back in _five minutes._ "

 

"I hope you run into Isaac on your Walk of Shame." Stiles teases.

 

"Walk of Shame? Nah, I'm calling it my Stride of Pride." Scott laughs, kissing Stiles on the nose, and that's all it takes to make Stiles completely melt.

 

"Five minutes. I'm timing you." Stiles says, but he's breathless, and Scott's smile makes something warm bloom in his chest.

 

Scott's back in four minutes and fifteen seconds, and he's red in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

 

"Oh, you- you _did_ run into Isaac, didn't you? Oh my god. I'm gonna ask him to imitate your face, later."

 

"I _would_ have been back in three minutes, but he let out this abrupt scream of a laugh. I thought he was _possessed._ "

 

"At least you didn't run into your mom."

 

"Oh my _god._ "

 

Scott practically runs across the room, stumbling out of his jeans and peeling off Stiles' shirt before barrelling into the bed, supplies in hand. Stiles curves into him, getting his hands on Scott's bare skin as Scott straddles him.

 

"So, I've still got my V-Card. Even if I'm holding onto it very loosely, at the moment. Have you ever… with a dude?"

 

"No, but Allison and I… we didn't _exactly_ , but we tried. Stuff. We tried stuff."

 

Stiles expects to feel a pang of some kind of jealousy when Scott talks about Allison, but he doesn't. Stiles _likes_ Allison, cares for her like a sister, and he's kind of figured out that her and Scott are in different places, now. "That's hot, dude."

 

Scott blushes, failing at trying not to grin. "Are you comfortable? With all this?"

 

Stiles stretches, arching his back and spreading his legs. "Do I _look_ comfortable?"

 

Scott pointedly doesn't look at Stiles' dick. "Well, just, uhm-"

 

"Yeah. I am. I want to."

 

Scott takes a deep breath, squirming a little in Stiles' lap. "Okay, okay. Just, if we need to stop, for any reason, tell me."

 

Stiles gives Scott a lazy, two-fingered salute, and that's all it takes.

 

Scott grabs the plastic bottle, popping the cap. He's kneeling over Stiles, one hand braced against the headboard, thighs shaking a little. Stiles reaches to touch him without thinking, soothing his hands over Scott's tensed muscles.

 

"Hey, hey, would it be easier if I helped with anything? You could talk me through it, 'cause I gotta learn some time, right?"

 

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good. Give me your hand?"

 

They fumble a little, Scott warming the lube against Stiles' fingers and guiding Stiles' hand between his legs. Scott gasps when Stiles pushes a middle finger inside of him, body curving concave, shoulders bunching. Stiles rests a hand on the small of Scott's back, and all the blood from his brain rushes to his dick when Scott _whines_ , high in the back of his throat, all visceral frustration.

 

"You gotta move, gotta do _some- oh,_ your fingers are really long-"

 

Stiles tries to work methodically- this is more necessity than foreplay- but it's the two of them, existing in each other's space and madly tuned in with each other, and when Stiles notices Scott's breath hitching when he crooks his fingers just _there,_ it's in his blood and muscles and brain to chart that course. He holds himself back when he can, focusing on what they both really, _really_ want.

 

Scott's hands are steady when he rolls the condom and drags lube-slick hands over Stiles' cock, but he's breathing fast and off-tempo.

 

"You freaking out a little? I'm freaking out a little." Stiles tries to laugh, but he sounds _wrecked,_ and Scott kisses him hard and sharp when he settles onto Stiles' cock.

 

The air is completely gone from Stiles' lungs, and for a moment, the two of them are completely still and staring.They've crossed all these lines, and they're something more, now- on the crest of something Stiles can't think about, can't let his imagination run wild. Stiles is the first to move- another part of their endless cycle of push and pull- and Scott follows like he always does, hands curled tight on Stiles' shoulders.

 

Scott rocks against him, and his thighs are still shaking, and the skin across his knuckles is taught, but when Stiles rests a hand on his cheek, his lines go all soft, and it makes something in Stiles' _ache,_ at his very centre. Scott kisses him, then, loud and wet and _filthy,_ and Stiles can see stars.

 

"Can you talk, again?" Scott asks, pressed to Stiles' mouth, so sweet, and Stiles grabs at his hips, needs to _touch._

 

"Like… before?"

 

Scott nods, nose bumping against Stiles', grinding into Stiles' lap and lowering his lashes. Stiles bites Scott's lower lip, and Scott laughs, and it's such a clear, familiar sound that Stiles can feel right through him, and this is _them-_ ScottnStiles, moving with each other- and it's sweet and lewd and desperate by turns, and Stiles wants _all_ of it.

 

"You like it when Italk dirty to you- oh, my _god,_ come _here_ -" Stiles wraps his arms around Scott's waist, and that's a _good_ angle, and when Stiles bucks his hips, still trying to find the right rhythm, Scott _thrashes_ in his lap, lascivious noises and _strong_ hands dragging down Stiles' back.

 

"Stiles-"

 

"-Of course I can talk- anything you ask, you know that, right? I'm _yours-_ you have me, always-"

 

" _Stiles-_ " Scott's hands are on his face, spread from jaw to temple, and his eyes are locked on Stiles'.

 

"- _look_ at you, filled up with my cock, you're so _good,_ you know that, right? You feel amazing, and we're- it's _us,_ it's always been us- god, I _meant_ it when I said I'd bend you over that fucking motorbike, and you'd _better_ pin me against a wall and- you could bring me off just with your hands, those _hands,_ holding me down, I'd-"

 

Stiles gasps when Scott squirms, and their movements are erratic, now. Scott's cock bobs against his stomach, and when Stiles touches him, he wants the sound of Scott coming undone (with _him_ ) to be as clear and familiar as his laughter.

 

Scott's moving his hands over Stiles' skin, but it's not so much roving at it is placement; slow and frantic by turns, palms resting feather-light and pushing insistently in the dips and swells of Stiles' body. Stiles blushes, then, and he can't look at the wonder on Scott's face; focuses instead of bringing him off, hands slow and deliberate.

 

Scott's saying his name like a mantra, and it's making heat coil in Stiles' belly.

 

"I-" He chokes out, and Scott cups his face in both hands, making Stiles look at him, and Stiles' brain shorts out, words lost somewhere in the back of his mouth. Scott's looking at him, and Stiles is sure he's mirroring his expression, and they're both so _starstruck_ with each other, with the safe familiarity and the unexplored possibility of _them,_ and, and, _and-_

 

Scott comes shouting Stiles' name, wide eyes dark and wild, and it makes something in Stiles' head explode like cartoon dynamite- how much Scott _wants_ him- and Stiles kisses Scott with an edge to his teeth and a hand tight in Scott's hair. Scott says his name, again, soft against his mouth, back arching and hands searching, and Stiles comes when he yanks Scott's head down by the hair, on the right side of rough, tongue in Scott's mouth trapping Scott's name in the back of his throat.

 

They're lying side by side, facing each other with arms tucked under their heads and bent knees; two halves, always. The sun's higher in the sky, now, and there are gold bars spread over Scott's stomach, filtered through the slats of the blinds. Stiles reaches out and touches because he can, and Scott smiles sleepy and small, and runs a finger down the curve of Stiles' nose.

 

"You're nose is like a ski slope. It's cute."

 

"Poetry, dude."

 

Scott pulls him against his chest, laughing, and they're more than a little gross, but Stiles melts into it, moulding himself against Scott's bare skin as Scott kisses the crown of his head. Scott tucks him under his chin, and Stiles loves the gesture, feels so secure, even if his feet stick out.

 

"Okay, then let's hear some of _your_ poetry."

 

"Hey, I could write _ballads_ about your gorgeous dick-"

 

"Gorgeous dick?"

 

"It comes with the territory. You know, eyes like hot coffee on a starry night, smile that puts the sun to shame, gorgeous dick-"

 

Scott kisses him so gently, tipping his chin up with his thumb and forefinger, and makes Stiles feel so debauched with the _intimacy_ of it, and he can't breathe, and it's not scary, it's wonderful, and, and, _and-_

 

"Mhm. D'you want cookies?"

 

"What?"

 

"There's chocolate chips at my house. I could bake you some."

 

"Wow, your house has lube _and_ chocolate chips. Maybe I should just live there, dude." Stiles wants to shove the words back into his mouth, because that must've sounded _weird,_ because Best Friends ScottnStiles would joke about living together, but this is, does Scott need space now that _they're-_ Stiles hasn't quantified it, yet-

 

"I think my Mom's already got a tax claim on you. May as well get some benefits of our own, dude." Scott laughs, so easy, and Stiles laughs with him, and his he's so _happy._

 

"Just amazing sex and fresh-baked cookies all the time. I love you." And again, Stiles wishes he hadn't said anything, because Best Friends ScottnStiles _love you, man,_ but this isn't planned and scrutinized yet, and Stiles has always been able to bare himself to Scott, but this is-

 

"I know." Scott says, and Stiles doesn't understand.

 

They're silent, and Stiles' heart is hammering, because he doesn't understand what Scott meant when he said _I know,_ and he can't brush this off and laugh and play it down, and he can't meet Scott's eyes.

 

"I was trying to quote Star Wars." Scott mumbles, and, and, _and-_

 

"You, _oh-_ no, you're too upstanding to be Han Solo, that scoundrel. You're Princess Leia, and oh my god, I _love_ you." Stiles knows he must sound completely unhinged, but Scott is kissing his cheeks and the curve of his nose and the corner of his mouth, and, and, _and-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I'm fully recovered from the removal of my wisdom teeth, and back to lucidity. You guys have been wonderfully sweet (as always). Air kisses for all!!


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